Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MONTY
T horne is going to kill me, I’m sure of it, after I answer yet another question with hmm? I’ve been a shit best man all evening, ever since I arrived at his suite to help him prepare for his ceremony with my mind elsewhere. All I could think about was Daphne. All I could do was steal glances at my hands, marveling at how they’d coaxed her to climax and drew out the sweetest of moans and whimpers just hours before. I was harboring half a hard-on as I tried to pretend I was present with Thorne and his other groomsmen, and now I can’t pretend at all.
Because there she is.
I stand on a rounded dais at the far end of the hotel’s main avenue, where the glittering indoor canal ends in a large pool. The dais is set upon a wide terrace, flanked by intricately carved marble walls adorned with faux windows and a massive array of floral arrangements. A string quartet plays from a nearby balcony, filling the air with their sweet melody. The back wall is enchanted to replicate the sunset, and before it stands an arched trellis woven with climbing jasmine. Briony’s bridesmaids—Angela included—stand on one side of the dais while Thorne, his groomsmen, and I stand on the other.
But my eyes take in none of this. Instead, they’re locked on Daphne.
She sits in one of the gondolas that glide through the pool toward the terrace, beside figures neither of us know. Her shoulders are slightly hunched, her hands in her lap. I hate that I couldn’t escort her, for everyone she’s even mildly acquainted with is in the wedding party. Still, she assured me she’d be fine before I left her hotel room. Before I forced myself away from her when all I wanted to do was kiss her, take her to bed, and make love to her for the rest of the day.
I should win an award for my restraint.
Or perhaps I should be punished.
Her gondola arrives at the dock, and she and the other passengers disembark. My eyes remain on her as she climbs the steps onto the terrace. As soon as she reaches the aisle, her gaze finds mine. My chest tightens. My mind goes blank.
Fucking hell.
I am being punished.
Because there she is in that same yellow dress I made her come in just hours ago. Her legs are covered in white stockings, her hair no longer mussed from the pleasure I gave her, but every inch of my body remembers how she looked, how she felt, how she smelled. How hot and slick she was around my fingers. How soft and languid she was against me.
“Are you going to answer my fucking question?” Thorne’s whispered words have my spine going rigid. He stands facing the growing audience with his head angled toward me.
“Hmm?” I blink at him.
“I asked if you’re all right. You’ve been absentminded all goddamned evening.”
I shake the lust and…and the warmer feeling from my head. “I’m great. Besides, I should be asking you that. You’re the one about to be married.”
Thorne heaves a sigh that seems to relax his entire being. “I’m better than great. I just can’t wait to see her.” He meets my eyes, and I find tears in his as he gives me a shaky smile. “She’s going to be my fucking wife.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from tearing up myself. I’ve never seen Thorne like this, and I’ve known him almost my whole life.
He faces forward again, and my eyes dart back to the aisle just as Daphne reaches her row and takes a seat. Our eyes connect again, and she gives me a warm smile and the smallest of waves.
I’m glad everything is still normal between us. Comfortable.
“Who’s the girl in yellow?” I bristle at the voice that comes from the groomsman on my other side. I met him during Thorne’s stag party and again earlier this evening as we helped the groom prepare for his ceremony. He’s one of Thorne’s newest friends, and they’ve already grown close enough that he’s a fucking groomsman.
I may have a slight jealousy issue when it comes to my friends making new friends, but that’s neither here nor there. Not when he’s asking about Daphne.
It’s all I can do not to snarl at him as I arch a brow his way. What is his name? Paul? Paolo? No, it was Patrick. Patrick Wright.
He meets my eyes without falter. “Do you know her?”
“Yes,” I bite out.
Thorne angles his head toward us. “She’s Monty’s newest victim in his so-called matchmaking,” he whispers.
Patrick’s eyes widen. “Matchmaking?”
“He’s helping her find a husband.”
I turn a perplexed look to Thorne. How the fuck does he know that?
“Briony told me,” he says, answering my silent question.
My chest tightens. Daphne must have told Briony, then. It’s true; I am helping her find a husband. So why does it make me so uncomfortable that Patrick knows? So irritable? Why does it make me feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin?
“Can you introduce me?” Patrick asks.
I pointedly ignore him. Thankfully, I’m given the perfect excuse.
The music shifts to a new song. The last of the guests have arrived and a single gondola floats toward this end of the pool.
Thorne sucks in a breath and stands up straighter. The boat’s occupants are hidden behind an enormous lace parasol, but as the gondola arrives at the dock, the parasol lowers to reveal Briony and Tilly. Hand in hand, they disembark the boat and climb the steps to the aisle. Briony is dressed in a curve-hugging gown of white silk, her golden hair spilling over one shoulder, adorned in pearls and white roses. Tilly wears a ruffly lace dress, a crown of pink and white roses nestled on her pale hair around her bunny ears. As they proceed down the aisle, Thorne wipes a hand over his jaw, and I hear the telltale shudder of his breath. He’s trying not to cry.
Finally, the bride and child reach the dais and stop before Thorne. The three link hands and stand before the trellis, where a human minister awaits. What follows is a ceremony that somehow blends human wedding traditions with a heavy dose of fae influence. They exchange rings, speaking vows that are personal to their relationship. I shiver at the sound of their promised words. With Thorne being half fae and Briony pureblood, their vows are binding. Not just legally but magically.
Just like the bargain I made to never marry.
A vow I physically cannot break.
And the bargain I made before that, to never tell a soul about my lineage. I can’t even write it down or try to relay the truth without words, for part of my bargain included not letting anyone find out. The only reason I didn’t suffer the harmful consequences of breaking my bargain when my goblin lender read my secret with his magic was because I had no say in what he did. No intention to convey my secret. I’ve never been brave enough to test it any further. Not when breaking bargains means death, and the circulation of the secret I carry means the ruination of my family name.
My lungs tighten, but I narrow my attention on the bride and groom. On their love for each other. Their eyes sparkle as they hold each other’s gaze, repeating words that bind their love. Then the minister directs them to face Tilly. The young girl looks surprised, even more so when Briony slips a ring off the tip of her pinky finger and hands it to Thorne. He places the ring on Tilly’s index finger, and her wide blue eyes well with tears.
“Do you, Tilly Blackwood, take Thorne and Briony to be your beloved parents?”
Oh fuck.
My chest lurches, my throat constricting. Tears glaze my eyes and this time, there’s nothing to stop them. Especially as the girl sobs, nodding her head. Then even more so as Thorne, my stoic best fucking friend, states his vows to be her father.
Tears stream down my cheeks, and there’s no hiding them.
For the love of the All of All, I’ve taken pleasure in pain before but this is on a whole new level. This erases my soul from the face of the earth and builds it back up. Purifies me. Tears me to shreds and then stitches me back together.
This is love.
This is family.
This is what I’ve always yearned to see, in all my half-jested attempts at matchmaking. I’ve always been desperate to prove love is real. That it looks different from how it looked during my childhood. That it’s warmer than the loveless marriage my father had with his wife—the woman who pretended to be my mother yet never fully loved me, despite her warmest efforts, despite never having received such love from my father aside from their mutual fondness for Angela. I wanted to see that it looked different from the mother who left me without hardly a backward glance. That it looked different from Cosette, who chose someone else only to beg to have me back, without any true adoration for me. Only desperation.
This is it. This is what it’s supposed to look like.
I glance at Daphne. She watches the couple, head tilted curiously to the side, as if she too is realizing the same thing. That this is what a wedding should be. This is what she deserves, not a rushed pairing just to get out of her handfasting.
Her gaze slowly slides to mine and my heart stutters. Can she see the truth on my face? How badly I want this for her?
No…
It’s not just that.
I want this for her…yet I don’t.
I want her to be freed from her handfasting. I desperately do. She can’t be stuck in her hometown when she wants to be an illustrator. She can’t be chained to a goddamned honey badger who doesn’t share her vision for the future. She needs a husband to sever that tie. Yet I don’t want to think of her up here with anyone. No one.
No one except for…
I swallow the thought as if banishing the lump in my throat might keep my feelings at bay. Feelings that are growing harder to ignore.
Daphne’s expression turns soft. She must see the tears on my cheeks. Her own eyes glaze with a sheen of moisture and she gives me a subtle nod. A silent assurance that it’s all right.
It’s all right to be moved.
To feel.
But is it truly all right to feel? When the one thing I’m starting to feel the strongest about is something I can never have?